


"Meeting Death is just the next great adventure."

by ButterfliesNeverDie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Twins, F/F, F/M, Identical Twins, M/M, Multi, Other, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterfliesNeverDie/pseuds/ButterfliesNeverDie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started with an unending itching feeling, the feeling you'd get when you felt you were being watched. After that it just went downhill. Harry should have known something was up, because being the Master of Death never had any kind of guide book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Meeting Death is just the next great adventure."

**Author's Note:**

> I ended up writing this from boredom and an unending itch to make a twin Harry story. I ended up adding time travel in as well, because why not?? A warning, I haven't written anything like a story in a /long/ time, so please be patient with me. If you have any comments on things or even advice, I'd love to read them so I can improve.

 

* * *

  _No No You can never hide  
_ _I can see you there  
_ _No No You can never hide  
_ _I can see your hair  
_ _No No You can never hide  
_ _I can see your scared  
_ _No No You can never hide_

 **\- Hide and Seek by Vocaloid.**  

* * *

  
Harry realised something was wrong when paranoia hit him. He'd dealt with it in small doses sure, and had not forgotten the cries of "CONSTANT VIGILANCE" from Moody in the following years of the war, but the fact he was now jumping at shadows when he'd been better at such things for a year was worrying. Hermione was coddling him, as was Molly. Ron was worried, but not too much so. He thought it was muggle PTSD, which is what Hermione said it was. Harry didn't have the heart to discredit such ideals, and so didn't try to. At least Ginny was leaving him alone by now.

That morning, Harry had tried to ignore his shitty increased paranoia more than usual, if only so he could go visit George, something he'd done daily since the end of the war. It had taken some pet talks and derisive comments to himself before he'd finally been able to leave Grimmauld though, but he'd done it. Only a quick and clear cry of the Wheezes flat's name, and Harry had disappeared in familiar green flames.

The journey was expected, if loathed, and Harry wasn't surprised when, after a good jumbled tumble through the fireplaces, he got spat right out and almost flew into a wall. He caught himself at the last second, covered head to toe in soot and looking worse for wear. Without even bothering to clean himself, because he'd just get dirty again on the way back, he headed towards the kitchen. The barrenness of the place hit him, before he shook his head and got to work.

It was almost ritualistic, how he easily moved into the form of a cook and begun with a good brunch, because he was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. No one came as he cooked, but Harry was used to that, and knew why. His choice to become George's caretaker after Fred's death wasn't from him feeling guilty, though he did at times, more often than not. No, it was because George was his friend, and Fred had been one too, and Harry knew that Fred wouldn't want George to die like he was. So Harry came, and he cooked, and he cleaned, and he talked and tried to make George feel at least a little better. It wasn't much, but he felt like his effort made a difference. George got up more than he used to, and Molly commented last week about George's complexion having gotten better.

Finishing a good meal of Bangers and Mash, Harry got the food put on a plate with a few wand waves, and had a fork and spoon zooming to lay beside it as he opened the fridge to grab the apple juice. He almost paused when he saw a moldy half hidden and eaten sandwich, but he knew why it was there, who had eaten the half, and so didn't mess with it. Molly would have thrown it out, he knew that, but Harry wasn't Molly. That was probably why George allowed him in the flat when he denied so many others. Because he knew Harry respected his needs for the last things Fred had touched or had. Picking up the plate, the spoon and fork floating beside him along with the apple juice, Harry headed down the hall and towards the second room in the flat. It was Fred's, but Harry knew who really lay behind the door.

He doesn't bother to knock, he's not needed to for a while, and the he'd learned his lesson the first times he had and George had locked the door magically out of anger and spite and unwillingness to get better. Not like that had stopped him though, learning to pick locks really was a useful skill, and the Weasley twins weren't the only one's to have it. Instead, Harry pushes the door open and shoves his way in.

George is where he usually is, moping, and Harry doesn't bother to say anything, not yet anyway. He heads over and turns a tissue into a tray, which he puts on George's lap, and then puts the food, drink, and eating utensils upon it. Bleary blue eyes seek his own green ones out, and Harry gives George a rather firm look that gets him a tired and not really right grin in reply. His voice, when he speaks, is husky, but Harry is used to it by now. Harry knows what it is from as well, having dealt with such a thing himself. A raw throat, endlessly so, due to mourning and crying.

" 'Ey Harry."

"Hullo yourself. Now eat."

"Never let me have a break do you?"

"I let you skip breakfast, that's break enough."

It's so strange, being the one ordering George around and making him eat and try to feel better. It's usually Harry going through what George is, not the other way around.

"Do I have to."

It isn't even posed as a question, and the look is answer enough. With a grimace, George forces himself to sit up and begins to eat. It's more picking at it really, but he's eating some of it at least. Harry sumnons a chair and sits down in it to watch, almost with a hawk-like gaze, until more than half the food has been consumed. Once he's sure of the sufficient food intake, Harry relaxes. It's not completely, like he'd been able to do at first, and it irks him. The unending itch is there, and it's only been increasing over time. Harry's found that the only places he even feels remotely safe in anymore are George's flat and Grimmauld, which is ironic in more ways than Harry likes to admit. Harry's thought about sharing his problems before, but then decided against it. All it took was one look at the greasy hair and black circles under George's eyes, still there after a year of loss, and Harry knows he can't. He's not that selfish. Sometimes though, Harry thinks, he wishes he were that selfish. If only so he wouldn't feel so alone.

"When did you last bathe."

It's not so much of a question as an annoyed comment.

"Yesterday."

Harry gives his friend a narrowed eye'd look, and gets a cheeky half grin in reply.

"Git. "

He says it with the utmost fondness of a friend, and knows that George can tell, because his smile is more real, and he's more relaxed.

"Don't worry Har. I'll take one after you leave."

At the look he quickly adds onto his statement.

"Promise."

With a sigh, Harry forces himself to stand up. Unconsciously, he scratches at his neck and gives a tired grin to his friend. His hand falls down, before moving to squeeze George's shoulder.

"I'd stay longer, you know I would, but I've got some bloody annoying mail from Shacklebolt, trying to get me into the Auror program again. "

There is a understanding in George's eyes, and he gives a jerky nod. He knows, better than anyone else, how tired Harry is of fighting, and understands the need not to become a Auror.

"I'll see you tomorrow then. "

"You will. Make dinner for yourself this time or I'll hex your eyebrows off."

The broken laugh he gets is better than the pained look he'd gotten months before, and Harry is slightly satisfied. Still, he doesn't look forward to the following floo journey he will be going through before he's home again. A few more comments and him pushing George to eat the rest of the food he'd made him or he'd feel 'upset and like his cooking really was shite' and Harry finally leaves.

The journey through the floo a second time is just as bad, and Harry collides with his floor rather spectacularly. He just lays there for a moment though, biting back a groan and trying to ignore how his stomach is protesting the adventure through the floo that he just went through, because getting up when he felt like he'd fought a bludger again wasn't on his to-do list. It's Kreacher that causes him to finally get up and stop being lazy and self pitying. The house elf appears with a pop and just gives the most unimpressed look he can muster towards Harry, something the old bat knows gets him his way. His way being Harry cleaning up at the moment, because Harry is covered in soot and dust and looks rather horrid. It would be a most amusing thing for him to show off to the papers now that he thinks about it, because their reaction and the Prophet's following story would get Harry a couple of laughs at least. 

But he digresses. 

Harry stands up, ignoring his stomach giving a rather unpleasant heave as well as the splotches of black he's left on the floor. Kreacher appears soon after once more, to give him _The Look_  again as well as begin working on the new stains with some rather unpleasant mumbles about Harry under his breath. Harry, being used to it, walks by the house elf while just giving a rather cheerful comment to the old wizard servant.

"Love you too Kreacher."

He ignores the rag thrown at him in reply, and snickers on his whole way to his room and the connected bathroom. 

Not bothering for clothes, because Harry is a bachelour and only deals with Kreacher in his house at all times, he walks right into the attached bathroom to his room and leaves the door open. He may be dealing with a feeling of being watched, but he was pretty sure no one could get into the Black wards unless he let them, so really wasn't worried as much as he probably should be. Plus, no one in their right mind would try and kill someone when they were taking a shower. He strips in an almost bored manner, dropping his robes and taking off his pants as well as leaving his glasses on the sink counter, before he steps into the shower and lets out a sigh of relaxation when the water starts up automatically on hot and begins running down his back. Magic, Harry thought, really was amazing in the many things it did.

Black runs down his body from the soot and dirt due to his floo journey, but he doesn't much care. He reaches out blindly, because he can't see anything very well without his glasses, to grab some shampoo. It says something about Irish Springs, but Harry doesn't really pay much attention to it as he squirts the greenish silver shampoo into his palm and begins to lather it into his short messy hair. It's gotten longer he notices absently, his eyes closing to avoid the now grey coloured soap from getting into them. He'd either need to get a hair cut again, or he could cut it himself. It was more likely to be cut by himself actually, due to his waning trust issues. He probably should get that checked out but he's having trouble even trusting his friends by this point, a healer would cause undue amounts of panic he didn't want nor need. 

Thoughts on the letters from Shacklebolt and McGonnagal are interrupted by a loud thump from downstairs, which causes Harry to jump and curse as he drops his shampoo bottle onto his foot. He ends up hopping up and down, blindly reaching for a towel or something because he can't see and _oh god no soap has gotten in his eyes_. By the time he's finally calmed down and fixed his eyes, which are now red and bloodshot bloody fucking _shampoo_ , he can't hear anything else that is going on. His hair is still wet and has shampoo in it, but he's got a dark grey almost black towel around his waist and is wearing his glasses again. He has to squint to see at least semi-clearly, and he's dripping water everywhere, but there is no way in hell he's not finding out what happened.

A normal person would just let the thump go, dismiss it as his house elf having dropped something, but the thump was familiar in an aching way to Harry. It sounded like a body, a body hitting the floor, and that was worrying. He couldn't hear Kreacher ranting about an intruder either, so that meant it was likely the house elf that had fallen, and that in itself was bad juju. 

On his way out of the bathroom he grabs his wand and tugs up his towel. Listing his own wards under his breath in a way to calm himself, Harry quietly makes his way out of his bedroom and down the hall. His study door he'd left through he notices, is left ajar when he himself remembered closing it on his way out. Swallowing, he pushes the door open even more to peek in. The sight of his house elf, down and unmoving, makes his hand tighten around his Holly wand as panic rises throughout him. A quick glance shows that Kreacher isn't even breathing, and that is when, Harry notices the figure. It's almost translucent in nature, and standing above his poor and likely dead house elf, looking calm and.. inhuman. Harry doesn't realise he is shaking until he almost drops his wand. The voice that speaks just as he is taking a step back makes his heart hammer against his rib-cage unnaturally fast, and causes his breathing to increase.

"I can see you there you know."

It's an elderly voice, a young childs voice, a cracking teens voice, all at once. It's not human, and it's not any monster that Harry has read about. It's most definitely _not_  a wizard either, and all of Harry's instincts are screaming at him, telling him to _run_ **hide** _don't be caught_. 

And so he runs, and he hides, and he tries not to be caught.

Of course, with his horrid luck, he should have known such things would be useless. He's in Regulus' room he notices almost with bitter amusement, as he backs up and tries to find somewhere to hide in the area. His towel he'd almost lost on his run to the room, but he'd grabbed at it last minute and it was now around his waist and being held there with a sticking charm he should have used in the beginning. Being raised by muggles sure had made him forget about magic more than he should. As his eyes fall onto the door again, because he'd realised the only place to hide he could see was under the bed and he decided if he was to die he'd die with at least some dignity and not under a piece of furniture. It didn't matter if he was starkers, he'd go down fighting.

"You know. Finding you really was more difficult than I'd like to admit."

Harry stared, because there was an eye looking at him, right through the keyhole. That eye, he decided, was one of the most horrifying things he'd ever seen, and he'd fought dementors and dragons. It was silver, a colour that almost glittered as it looked at him. The sclera, or white around the eye, was black, and he saw that the iris of said eye was slit like a cats. 


End file.
